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Battle of the Chaos Altar
Battle of the Chaos Altar is a story being written by me (Sonicteej) about the exploits of my character Isaac Lunest after his disappearance. This story takes place within the past of World 41 (Somewhere in 2012, probably), and I have been visiting as many forum and wiki pages as I can to stay accurate. Chapter 1 A cold wind carried black dust across the scorched wasteland. Anatoly rubbed the chill out of his hands over a crackling fire, his leather boots set to dry on the sparse stone firepit and his rear planted on the stump of a dead tree. Anatoly’s friend sat crosslegged on the ground to his side, putting his head over the flames to peer into the pot hanging above the fire. “Yer face’ll go numb, puttin’ it so close to tha fire. And it's just lentils, Sardomin’s sake. They ain't gonna burn.” “I just like watching em cook, that's it.” Anatoly’s friend sat back, the cold air stinging his face moments later when the skin regained feeling. “Yer a funny fellow, Vlad. You comin all the way to Varrock with me?” Anatoly covered the whistling wind with the noise of a stone grinding along the blade of his axe, sharpening it in a habitual motion. “Things’re bad in the north, with the banks and all. Reason I took this job in the first place, eh? I want to stake it out in Lumby.” “Bunch a soft bastards down south I hear. Let witches and goblins run around in those swamps, prey on farmfolk. Nothing like-” Anatoly cut himself short to deal with an unexpected sight. A young man in a gray surcoat and pieces of white plate armor came around the side of a rocky outcropping. “Ay, who are you?” Anatoly shouted. “He's got the crossed keys, Anatoly.” “Emil Luxal, Ordo Hereticus. You've got something that belongs to us.” the young man planted his words down with all the authority expected of him. “Piss off!” Anatoly, spat. “We was promised good pay, wasn't we? I was going hungry, not to mention mad in this place. Like hell good pay.” “Look, I'm not the one to bring your complaints to, you should've spoken to the Inquisitor instead of running away.” “Why's it such a big deal we left? We wasn't conscripts or nothing.” Vlad piped up. “You could go on to share our secrets with the Kinshra. Ordo Hereticus policy states I have to kill you now.” “And they only sent one of ye to fight two of us? Blond hair Falador kid no less.” “The operation’s a little bit short staffed. Luckily I think we can afford to lose you two.” Emil smiled, drawing a small hunting dagger from its place on his hip. “That seems like bad weapon of choice.” Anatoly said, rising from his stump. A sharp scream was to follow, as the dagger landed in his eye with a solid crack as it stuck into his eye socket. The other deserter scrambled to his feet, pulling his lance off of its place across the fire. A loud sizzle filled the air as the lentil soup fell onto burning wood and Emil charged forward with his sword drawn. Vlad stabbed forward at the Ordo Hereticus, but the young man just knocked the attack away with his blade as he approached, hitting Vlad in the face with his pommel with the same momentum. Vlad dropped his guard and the tip of Emil's steel sword tore through his throat with a wet crunch. Emil turned to his left just in time to duck a hatchet swing- Anatoly’s tortured shout providing plenty of warning. He gave the deserter a backhand with his left hand, the metal gauntlet not being too kind on the face, before using it to free his sword from Vlad’s throat. He had no time to take in the suffocating deserter’s teary, desperate expression- Emil turned around with the backward movement of his blade as it was pulled free, catching Anatoly’s second hatchet swing. Anatoly, at this point spitting blood out of his mouth as it streamed down the left half of his face, used one hand to push Emil's sword hand downwards, freeing his hatchet. Emil shut his voice behind gritted teeth as the hatchet sliced into his bicep. He landed a punch into Anatoly’s nose, breaking it with a satisfying crunch. He followed up on the disorientation his blow had caused, releasing his breath in a brutal grunt as his blade glided between organs and through Gray Templar leather. Emil took a moment to catch his breath in the cold northern air. Snapping and sizzling produced an acrid black smoke as the lentil soup continued to burn, and the powerful scent of sweat and blood fused with a hint of sulphur in the air. Yet the foul smells were not the sourest things Emil tasted. His lip curled at the sight of Anatoly’s wide eyes and shitty mustache. “Thought you would be used to this.” A woman in the gray surcoat with the emblem of the Ordo Hereticus stepped up to Emil, placing a hand on his shoulder. She wore silver armor instead of gray plates, and bore a two handed sword on her back. “These kinds of people will never cease to disgust me, ma’am. The thought of abandoning Saradomin makes me sick to my stomach.” He said to his superior, their blue eyes locking as he spoke. Matching Rai’s gaze was intense, but had become a regular part of the two’s interaction. “Yeah, get over it. We need to get back to camp.” Rai stated promptly, and turned to lead the way back. “Why did you follow me? Didn't think I could handle a couple of farmer boys?” Emil said with a chuckle as he followed behind, wrapping his wound in a cloth at the same time. “Like you said, we’re short staffed. This operation can't really afford to lose you.” Rai said. A shit eating grin spread across Emil's face, and Rai didn't need to turn to know it was there. “Don't get too self important now. It's just lack of a better option.” “If I'm so important, mind healing my wound here? Hatchet guy scored a nasty hit. A lucky hit, but a nasty hit.” “Pain builds character, you should know that.” Rai shook her head. “Besides, I need to conserve my power. It's not as extensive as the others would have you believe.” A mile later, the two made it to the fort. A palisade ringed wooden buildings flying gray banners of Saradomin, illuminated by large braziers and small firepits, and at the center of it all was the mysterious rock they had been charged to protect. - The Kinshra camp was a much more humble affair. Rather than palisades and banners, the displaced order of knights had spread their tents all throughout a barren plateau. The makeshift acropolis was bustling with activity, at this hour knights were sitting down for dinner while their squires fetched water from the caverns. Sir Averson sat at a long oak table with his men and dug into what had been prepared for their meal. Fish and bread raided from Misthalin, as usual. “ I don't know what they expect us to do, damn Asgarnians are renting our castle.” one of Averson’s knights grunted. “Pah, we're on a mission from god! And no one who ain't Zamorakian would understand anyways.” another one noted. “Right, Sir Averson?” The knight looked to his superior expectantly, and then the rest of the table did as well. Averson looked at them silently for a few seconds as he finished chewing his food. “The Kinshra aren't a Zamorakian organization.” he said simply. A couple of Averson’s knights had something to say about that, but he didn't give them an ear. A boy in black, a Kinshra courier, had captured his attention with a tap on the shoulder. “Isaac Magis wants to speak with you.” The boy said with a polite smile. Averson gave him a slow nod and turned back to the dinner table. “...Something wrong sir?” “Management needs a word with me. I should be back in time for night drills.” Averson said, rising from the table. He ducked out of the large meal tent and started his walk across camp. His entire body was sore from training and exercising in his armor, and he had been looking forward to a nice meal and chance to rest all day. Instead he was making a trip into one of the most dangerous places on Gielinor. The chaos tunnels were hot, but the kind of hot without any moisture. In his black metal armor Averson felt like he had stepped into an oven, and his superiors were going to keep him in there until he was well done. It would be hard to tell of course, since his skin already carried a golden brown hue. “Sir Averson.” The Kinshra knight turned to his most peculiar attendant- a man made of white stone. He wore simple, red ZMI robes and had a set of bright, empty green eyes. “I… Who are you?” “I’m Jerry,” Jerry spoke in his hollow computer voice. “The Magis created me to be his assistant. I currently serve the function of guiding you to his chamber. Please, follow me.” Averson’s mouth drifted open, but he didn’t manage to make any words before Jerry turned and began to lead him down a hallway of soot-scorched rock. “This portal should lead you to the throne room. There is a small chance, however, that it will send you to a random location within the tunnels. Chaos magic, y’know.” “..How small a chance, Jerry?” “I wouldn’t worry myself about it. Then again, I wouldn’t worry about anything. Your body is not as suitable for reconstruction as mine is though, so make sure you watch out if you end up with the bronze dragons.” The rune essence assistant’s stone mouth formed into a pre-programmed smile and he pushed Averson through the portal. It was even hotter on the other side, like the demented hell-chef in charge of this operation just turned the dial way up. The Magis’s throne room wasn’t particularly large, and was mostly empty, but the small scale and relative austerity only served to magnify the intimidation factor. A black, stone-hewn throne sat upon a column of rock rising from a pit of bubbling molten lava. To the side stood Lord Argoras, Averson’s direct boss, whose presence was dwarfed by the Magis. Wearing the red and black robes of the Dagon’hai, sporting a long white beard, leering with harsh blue eyes and wielding a silver bladed staff, the Magis was nothing short of intimidating. “Sir Averson,” Argoras said with his gentle voice, “This is Isaac Magis, our partner.” The Kinshra leader gestured towards the former Grand Archmage. Averson went to one knee to humble himself before the wizard, his sore muscles silently screaming under the strain and heat. “Your leader has said some nice things about you.” Isaac started with a straight-faced compliment. Averson did not even dare smile in reply. “..I know very few share my privilege of having been educated in magic, relatively speaking. Do tell me, do you know what a runecrafting altar is?” “Yes. That’s what flooded Lumbridge a year back, I heard.” Averson replied in a measured, similarly no-fun-mode voice to the Kinshra’s scary wizard ally. “Collateral damage in the Zamorakian Magical Institute’s quest. I didn’t see the ZMI’s true intentions back then, but now I do. And now I am the last one left to see those intentions through.” “If I may, Magis. What are those true intentions?” “To save the world. And we’ll start by destroying the Chaos Altar.”